


Safe House

by Omi_Lightbearer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, His Last Vow Spoilers, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:03:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1255582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Lightbearer/pseuds/Omi_Lightbearer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after His Last Vow; storyline-consistent. Sherlock and John end up in a safe house -per Mycroft's arrangement- and they have to face Moriarty's return, several unexpected surprises and their long-suppressed feelings for each other. WARNING: This is an abandoned work for now. I don't know if I will continue it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe House

During the long minutes that preceded Mycroft’s phone call, Sherlock had given up all semblance of self-restraint. He’d allowed the whirlpool of painful emotions to pull him in because keeping up appearances didn’t matter anymore, especially since he was sitting on a plane by himself, being all but spirited away to the place where he would die. John wasn’t there to see, so he could tear up, clench his fists and all but smack his forehead onto the window freely. No one would give a damn.

Then he heard his brother’s voice telling him he was not leaving after all, and realized he would only have a few moments to pull himself together. Would John be still at the tarmac? Why would he? He must have gone home with his wife. Had Sherlock been in his right mind, he would have first wondered why he was allowed to come back. But that he would find out as soon as they touched down, and the other question just seemed more important. In lieu of hand luggage, he’d taken on board a number of unspoken words that he feared would come out with a vengeance as soon as he met his friend again.

As it had dawned on him that the only way to protect John Watson involved killing Magnussen, he had felt strangely calm and focused. It was a simple deduction, really. Becoming a murderer would entail his immediate, permanent removal from John’s life; as a result, John would get a shot at happiness. Sherlock had forced himself to ignore the fact that John had already spent two years of relative safety without him around and he hadn’t enjoyed it that much. Now, as the plane made his way back, he pictured the two of them going back to their old life, sharing the flat at Baker Street, facing whatever or whoever was important or dangerous enough that Mycroft had managed to convince everyone else at the MoD that Sherlock was an irreplaceable asset. Sherlock felt like a terribly self-serving man again, as if he had learnt nothing over the last few months. He knew better than that. John was going to be a father and his priorities would necessarily shift.  

Sherlock decided that he would somehow put up with that toxic emotion that had contaminated every inch of his body and was threatening to seep out of his flesh through the pores. He didn’t really know how to cope with it or make it go away, so at least he would endure it, embrace it, struggle to fence it on a secluded spot within his mind palace. He would never let anyone guess it was there, not even John. _Especially_ not John. He couldn’t bear the thought of widening the rift between them. The unvoiced words would stay in his head.

The plane landed and Sherlock found John and Mary standing exactly where he had left them. John’s face was surprisingly blank as Sherlock stepped off; was he happy to see him? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t able to speak to John at all as Mycroft’s men surrounded him almost at once and told him to get into a black car. He cast a backwards glance and saw John nod ever so slightly. He got the message: _I will find out where you are going, and follow._

‘So what happened?’ he asked his brother, who was looking at his mobile phone intently.

‘Moriarty. He’s not dead, apparently. Or at least not as dead as we thought him to be.’

The car drove off and Sherlock listened as Mycroft filled him in, while at the same time trying to put together all the facts he had ever gleaned about Moriarty, including those relating to the moment of his death.

‘He could have pulled it off. Yet I dismantled his network,’ Sherlock said pensively. ‘If he is alive, he must be on his own.’

‘A single man controlling all the television signals in Britain? It’s not possible. Think, Sherlock; there must be something you missed.’

‘Old associates. Not an organized network, not anymore, but a scattered number of pals who will come at his bidding. Mycroft, he will probably try to contact me. I’m not dead, and he must be pissed.’

‘You saw him blow his brains out.’

‘I thought I did. The mind can be tricked in many ways. Where are we going?’

Mycroft stared at him for a moment and Sherlock could have sworn he was glad to see him. The emotion was there for an instant before his brother regained his businesslike attitude.

‘We are going to a safe house. It will contain everything you need to track down our resurrected criminal. I’m afraid you won’t be left alone, however; I have had to assure my colleagues that you will be under watch. Don’t give me that look,’ Mycroft raised his eyebrows. ‘I got you a decent deal and there will be guards outside the flat instead of sitting in the living room. Believe me when I say you’d rather chase Moriarty around for a while than go back to Eastern Europe.’

‘I want John Watson there. It is not negotiable.’

Mycroft looked vaguely amused.

‘Does John Watson want to be there, I wonder?’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Sherlock felt a pang of doubt. Had he misunderstood John’s gesture? After all that had happened lately, was John going to stand by him?

‘He’s seen you shoot a man in cold blood and he’s got a seven-month pregnant wife. I’ve been observing him and I don’t think he understands why you did it, Sherlock.’

‘Do _you_ understand?’ Sherlock sighed.

‘You were emotional; furious. There is nothing you wouldn’t do for John Watson and that makes you a very dangerous man, but it also makes you weak. You lose composure and therefore lose control of the situation.’

‘I didn’t want anyone else to be blackmailed or pushed to their deaths by Magnussen. He had done enough harm already. I’m not a hero, brother, but I’m not the villain either. There are plenty of villains running around and I am here to help end their game.’

‘Do not disappoint me,’ Mycroft said as the car stopped. ‘I’ve put my neck on the line this time. If Moriarty is alive, we need to figure out what he wants. If he’s not alive, find out who is using him to frighten the whole nation.’

Sherlock nodded and got out of the car. He was escorted to the second floor of a tattered building by four uniformed men. As Mycroft has said, he would be left to his own devices as long as he didn’t attempt to leave the flat. The sitting room was surprisingly modern; there were a number of maps and books, a computer, and several police files containing information on Moriarty. More importantly, he had brought his suitcase with clothing and other essentials with him and he was allowed to use his phone. He found out his exact location and texted John. A few minutes went by before he got a reply. _On my way. Your brother sent a car._

Sherlock sat down at a desk and watched the video with Moriarty’s face saying “did you miss me?” over an over again. He had several hypotheses as to its origin, and a few more regarding how Moriarty had managed to override the TV signal. He could have pals at the different TV stations; that had been his MO when he broke into the Tower and created chaos in the bank and the prison. The message was personal and intended for him, Sherlock thought.

Sherlock was deep in thought, having analyzed every frame of the video, when John opened the door without knocking.

‘Did they let you through?’ Sherlock asked, feeling his heart clench. He got on his feet to face John.

‘Mycroft’s orders.’ John’s face wasn’t blank anymore. His brow was furrowed. He was pissed. Sherlock saw the fist coming but didn’t have time to dodge and it hit him on the face, knocking him against the wall. He leaned on it, befuddled not so much by the pang of physical pain as by the inner turmoil he was going through under John’s angry stare. He was standing right there with a hand on the wall, unable to move or speak, when something more unusual happened. John grabbed the collar of his shirt with both hands, pulled to make him bend forwards a little and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. The kiss was rough and brief but Sherlock’s heart almost leapt out of his chest. He’d never experienced anything quite like it, although John gave him not time to overcome his initial surprise and respond. John released him and turned around to look at the wall on his right. Sherlock took a hand to his face but it stopped in mid-air as he wasn’t sure whether to touch his aching cheek or his lips.

‘Care to elaborate?’ Sherlock managed to say in an attempt to break the awkward silence lingering between them.

‘You could bloody well deduce it,’ John said. He took a deep breath and spoke again, still not looking Sherlock straight in the eye. ‘You almost left, Sherlock. Almost left _me_. Again. With all that’s happened, you would still leave me to wonder, to try to make sense of it on my own. Don’t say you didn’t know what would happen after shooting Magnussen. You practically signed up to die.’

Sherlock chose his words carefully but he was also completely honest. He owed John that much.

‘I wasn’t thinking about my future. That’s all.’ Sherlock felt like his whole body had been ignited but at the same time emotion was paralyzing him, not allowing him to go and put his arms around his best friend. Whatever had just happened, he feared a hug wouldn’t be welcome. ‘John, you’ve had enough on your plate and that man was going to blackmail you and turn you into his puppet. I couldn’t stand there and watch it happen.’

‘You said you’d done it for Mary.’

‘For her. For you. It’s the same thing now,’ Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and walked towards the desk again. ‘There’s work to be done, John. It’s the only thing that matters.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ John said in a neutral voice.

‘What?’ Sherlock looked at him, confused. He was trying to click on the right icon on the computer screen and failing.

‘It’s not the only thing that matters. That is what you want us all to think. What you want _me_ to think. Yet you didn’t push me away a minute ago.’

Sherlock felt exposed, as if his cover had been blown in an instant. He attempted to pull himself together. Thankfully it was John the one who spoke again.

‘I may be misled, but it’s occurred to me that I matter to you. There is a lot of supporting evidence, so for God’s sake just tell me if I got that wrong.’ John’s gaze was full of unrestrained emotion, one that didn’t look like fury this time.

‘You matter more than anything or anyone,’ Sherlock admitted. ‘I want you safe.’

‘I’d rather not be safe. I want to stand by you when things get dangerous.’ John chuckled, taking Sherlock aback. ‘God, we’ve got dreadful timing. If this had happened…’ He cut himself short, apparently unwilling to finish the sentence.

Sherlock had thought over their relationship enough to guess that John had had feelings for him once. He’d never entertained any hopes that Sherlock would love him back, and so he hadn’t acted on them. Then Sherlock had made him grieve his death and —ultimately— move on. That much Sherlock understood. Sherlock knew he would have to live with it, being the one whose feelings couldn’t be returned. But the kiss had to be accounted for.

‘I can’t do this to you, John. I’ve messed up your life many times. But if you do that thing again it may just turn out that I _can_ , and will.’ He took his index finger to his own lips, trying to make a point.

‘I’m staying awhile, so it may just happen,’ John said noncommittally. However, Sherlock saw a hunger in his eyes that made him hope for the best.

‘It’d be nice to be able to use my brain again. We are going to need it,’ Sherlock noted. That made John smile and focus on the matter at hand.

‘Do you think Moriarty is alive, then?’

‘I can’t be sure yet. But we’d better find out really soon.’

They went through the video and all the information they had again. Sherlock texted Lestrade too, just to see if the police had some clues regarding the technical aspects of the broadcast at least. After some time pacing around the room, John let out a heavy sign and collapsed on a nearby chair.

‘There is something you should know. It’s been at the back of my mind for hours and I don’t know what to make of it. It’s about Mary.’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and sat back on his chair.

‘She looked pretty shaken up when she heard that Moriarty was alive. I hadn’t seen her that anxious in months.’ John stared at his hands.

‘She knows what happened that time at the pool. You’ve told her about every time we have faced him, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but we know what kind of person she is now. Why would she freak out just because she heard what happened?’

They didn’t really _know_ , Sherlock thought. He had wished for an opportunity to have a look at the “A.G.R.A” flash drive but it had been impossible to do it without betraying John’s trust. He had tried to think the best of Mary for his friend’s sake but something was still off. There was a big secret lurking somewhere and it could very well be a former association with the criminal mastermind. However, he didn’t dare say anything until they had some proof.  

‘Where is she now?’ Sherlock asked.

‘At a friend’s, I think. She said I should take as long as I needed to help you out.’

‘Lestrade just texted me. They can’t trace the Moriarty signal. It’s as if it had come from outer space, he says,’ Sherlock looked at his phone screen, happy to change the subject. He didn’t want to discuss Mary again.

They worked for hours and Sherlock grew increasingly restless. He wanted to go out there and track the man down. He had texted Mycroft with this request but his brother had told him to stay put until the following morning at least. A member of the surveillance team brought them something to eat.

‘I need to contact my homeless network. They may know something. But it’s not safe for me to do it over the phone,’ Sherlock said around midnight. He was exhausted. He hadn’t got a wink of sleep in forty-eight hours.

‘Mycroft will let you get out tomorrow. He knows you need to be in the field.’

‘Is there a bed in there?’ Sherlock pointed at the tiny flat’s only bedroom.    

‘One. A double one. Take it,’ John said, and it sounded like he’d meant to say something entirely different. John was rubbing his eyes sleepily.

Sherlock got on his feet, stood right behind John’s chair and leaned down to put his arms around John’s neck and shoulders. They were both so tired that he might get away with it, he thought. Plus, he didn’t have to look him in the eye in that position. At first, John didn’t move; after a few seconds he tilted his head to one side and Sherlock nuzzled into the curve of his neck. It was enough, Sherlock told himself. He could live with that; his starved heart would have to make do with a little morsel. John’s hands touched Sherlock’s while leaving them firmly in place; they fondled his palms, knuckles and fingers slowly. Sherlock felt like walking into a fire again, the flames already licking at his belly. He couldn’t believe how much pleasure he was deriving from John’s caress, considering that only their hands were involved. Then, of course, he didn’t know how much pleasure there was to be _had_ at all.

None of them spoke as Sherlock let his lips take over and planted a kiss on John’s neck. It was extremely pleasant, and John’s heavy breathing told him that he wasn’t the only one to find it so. Their heart rate had increased; Sherlock could sense the blood pumping through the veins and arteries in John’s neck at twice the normal speed. He couldn’t be getting it wrong, he thought. John was attracted to him. They just _clicked_ in a primary, chemical way, and he’d been an idiot not to notice sooner.

‘Sherlock,’ John said hoarsely, as if his throat had gone dry.

‘John?’ It came out like a whisper in John’s ear.

‘Stop now or don’t stop at all.’

Sherlock was overtaken by a tingling sensation that ran down his back and made every nerve stand on end and send confusing signals to his brain. He didn’t know what to do but his body apparently did and he didn’t really have a choice.

‘The latter,’ he said.

John stood up and looked at Sherlock as if he were eyeing him for the first time. He crossed the room in two quick strides and turned off the only light, then went back, put his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pinned him against the wall. They kissed again, more hungrily this time; Sherlock parted his lips and followed John’s lead, responding to the best of his ability. He had John on his taste buds now, on his fingertips, inside his nose; the only person he loved was permeating his body, getting in through his five senses. He was beginning to understand why people liked doing this, touching each other, practically melting into each other. Suddenly their hips were grinding and Sherlock became all too aware of his erection, trapped underneath his pants. John was hard too. A shiver ran up his spine and he nibbled on John’s lower lip. He reached for John’s shirt and started undoing the buttons clumsily. John did the same for him, and slid a hand down Sherlock’s bare chest.

‘Oh, God,’ John mumbled; his fingers hadran over the scar that the bullet had left and they had frozen in place. He stepped back as if to look at it, then realized it was too dark to see. ‘It’s permanent.’

‘We go into war, John, and we get wounded,’ Sherlock replied; his eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to make out the outline of John’s features. ‘It’s alright.’ He kissed John on the cheek to get the message across.

‘You haven’t done this before,’ John said, and it wasn’t really a question.

‘You know the answer,’ Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, slightly embarrassed.

‘It’s ok. I haven’t been with… a man.’

They were in the same boat then, more or less. Sherlock found it amusing. Their shirts slid down their shoulders and dropped to the floor. John’s body was so warm, he thought. Sherlock’s fingers traced the strong collarbone and went down John’s navel, grazing a nipple on the way. John’s hands were all over him, lightly scratching his back, venturing down the waistline of his trousers.

‘Bed,’ John mumbled. He grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and led him into the bedroom. ‘God, that’s better,’ he said as Sherlock lay down on his back, giving him better access to every bit of skin.

Sherlock could feel his face heating up as John’s hand undid his trousers and finally found what it was looking for. His penis was painfully erect and throbbing, and seemed to welcome John’s fumbling fingers. He gasped audibly as John started stroking him while his other hand did away with the layers of clothing that remained between them. Sherlock simply couldn’t think anymore, and it was an alien feeling. He wasn’t in control; his universe had never been so narrow. Now a man stood at its very centre. The darkness in the bedroom was absolute, and they had only their touch to rely on. He would have liked to see the desire on John’s face, but he could hear his heart beating, feed the adrenaline pumping through his body. Sherlock put a hand on John’s arse, drawing them even closer. Their erections rubbed against each other and Sherlock was drowning in waves of pleasure, literally gasping for air. John’s fingers dug into his hips; their lips met again and moans were stifled into a kiss. He’d been missing out on this all his life. But no, Sherlock thought; it was just John. He’d been waiting for John.

Sherlock would have said the words then. He was about to, but they caught in his throat as the tension within his body mounted beyond endurance and he climaxed, spilling warm fluid between their bellies. Although he was gone too deep in his own pleasure, Sherlock was aware of John grinding his hips against his thigh a few more times and finding his own release. It was good. It was perfect. He hadn’t known it would feel like that, like touching paradise; it was better than being high or drunk. He was incapable of rational thought. John kissed his forehead, then moved to one side and curled up with his back against Sherlock, drawing the covers up around their naked bodies.

Sherlock waited for John to say something but it didn’t happen. He didn’t know what one was supposed to do after sex. He felt rather groggy, however, and assumed John was feeling the same. He concentrated on listening to the rhythms of John’s body and heard his breathing slow down as the man fell asleep minutes later. He hadn’t moved away, Sherlock thought. John’s neck was resting inches from his lips. Sherlock breathed in his scent; it was different now. It was _Johnscent_ plus sweat and testosterone and sex. He needed to commit all the new information to memory, add it to the ever increasing heap of _Johnlore_ in his mind palace.

A little voice at the back of his head spoke up, insisting that he should feel guilty. Sherlock silenced it immediately. _John is a married man_ , it said. _Married to a stranger_ , he replied. _Married only because I let go of him_. _He was mine from the start. We could have had this. Everything._ Suddenly he grew afraid that John would flee in the morning. He wrapped an arm protectively around John’s waist. He wished for him to stay more intensely than he had ever wished for anything in his life. He was still thinking of John when he drifted off to sleep.

When he woke up he felt disoriented for a second. It took him a second to remember he was somewhere other than his Baker Street flat. He was alone in bed and memories from the previous night came rushing back. He got up quickly and wrapped himself in one of the sheets, using it as a mantle of sorts the way he had done when he visited Buckingham Palace years before. His clothes probably lay scattered around the flat, he thought. John was sitting on a chair in the living-room and holding his phone with a vacant expression on his face. He tilted his head up when he saw Sherlock emerge from the bedroom. There was a distinct smell of soap about him and Sherlock noticed he’d taken a shower.

‘What time is it?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Almost seven. There’s tea in the kettle.’

‘Good.’ He didn’t know what else to say, at least not at that moment. He decided to get some clean clothes out of his suitcase and head straight to the shower.

However much he wanted to dwell on past events, he needed to focus, he thought as he let hot water pour down his body and wash everything away. First he had to convince Mycroft that he must go out to make some inquiries. Everything else, including the new _status quo_ with John —if there was one— had to wait.

‘I can’t get hold of Mary,’ John said when Sherlock went back into the living-room, now fully dressed.

‘It’s very early.’ Sherlock grabbed his own phone and started texting quickly.

‘I have a bad feeling. It won’t go away.’

Sherlock wondered whether that feeling could be guilt, but he didn’t voice the thought.

‘We’ll get moving and try to locate her later today,’ he finally said. ‘Nothing has to be wrong.’

 _I can only let you leave the flat if you consent to being monitored,_ Mycroft’s message read.

 _I’m useless in here. Fair enough._ Sherlock decided he could probably work around the surveillance team once he set foot on the street.

‘Are you coming?’ Sherlock asked. John sprang to his feet and took his coat in way of an answer.

A small squad of two men and a woman followed them at a distance. Sherlock didn’t enjoy being chased and he hatched a plan.

‘We need to lose them,’ he muttered.

‘How? They’ll probably shoot you on the leg or something if they see you trying to get away. Those could be your brother’s orders.’

‘I know the tunnels under the city better than they do. We have to get to one of the entrances and then we are going to need to run really fast. If you’re up to it.’

They pulled it off. Twenty minutes later, they were running across the entrails of London, headed towards the den of one of Sherlock’s informers. The old man didn’t have any news regarding Moriarty, and they had to knock on several doors before they found someone who could provide a piece of information.

‘The motherfucker’s back; didn’t die. Old Jack is screwed, he is,’ said a middle-aged woman who was warming her hands next to a small fire. ‘Told him not to mess around with the big fish, but he was part of the network, you know. Same as I’m part of yours. Don’t worry, I never told him nothing, sir.’ She was saying the truth.

‘Have you seen Moriarty?’ Sherlock whispered his question.

‘Not with my own eyes, no. But Old Jack ran away like the devil was chasing him. Either to meet him or to avoid him, which I am not sure, sir.’

‘Which way did he go?’

The woman did her best, but her intel was limited. Sherlock thanked her briskly and they moved on.

‘Old Jack could be running from someone else. Anyone else,’ John noted.

‘Interesting character. I’ve heard stories about him. He’s not the chicken type.’

 _They were under instructions to let you go. Report back to me every hour or I’ll order them to shoot you on the leg_ _—_ _or wherever they see fit._ Sherlock frowned at his brother’s message. They hadn’t really got away with it then.

 _Nothing to report now. We’re gathering clues_ , he replied.

‘Where next?’ John asked. ‘I’m thinking we could split up, stay in touch.’

‘It’s not a good idea,’ Sherlock shook his head once. ‘I’d rather have you with me.’

He realized how strange that must have sounded when he saw John’s puzzled expression.

‘What I mean is, you are the obvious target, John. _If_ he is alive, he will come after you. I bet there is nothing he would like better than getting back at me.’

John opened his mouth as if he were going to protest, then seemed to think again and remained silent for a moment.

‘Let’s move on,’ he said eventually.

They spent the whole morning running around London, putting together little pieces of information. It occurred to John that they hadn’t eaten at all, and they stopped to buy a snack at a tiny takeaway near Euston Station. Sherlock knew something was wrong as soon as he saw the face of the Indian shopkeeper. He gave them a bag with their food and a closed envelope.

‘He said to give this to you,’ the frightened man muttered. Sherlock didn’t have to ask who had. He gave the bag to John and started walking away with the envelope in hand. He held it to the light, trying to catch a glimpse of its contents. Sherlock’s name was the only word printed on the back. Not with a computer but with an old typewriter, he noticed. He needed to rule out the presence of chemicals or any kind of poison inside it; he wished he had his laboratory equipment at hand.

‘Do you think it’s from him?’ John asked.

‘It could be. I’m not touching it with my bare hands, that’s for sure.’ Sherlock put on his gloves and used a tiny penknife he carried in his pocket to open the envelope without ruining the contents. A single piece of paper came out as he shook it carefully. The text was typewritten too, and the machine used must have been at least eighty years old. Everything you could write using a computer left a digital trace; typewriters did not.

_Surprise! I hope you didn’t miss me that much. We couldn’t meet in hell after all, darling. You didn’t die but guess who didn’t die either? It’s delightful how we both pulled it off. We should exchange secrets like the good magicians we are. But first things first, guess who is going to pay dearly for messing with my little organization. You should have been mine and, by the time I am through with you and your beloved friend, you will wish you had died._

_P.S. I’m not giving you the opportunity to shoot me on the head._

_Lots of love and hugs and kisses._

Sherlock had expected something else; a demand —however unreasonable— would have been better than this apparently empty threat. The idea that Moriarty wanted nothing in particular except for getting his revenge chilled his blood; John was in danger again and Sherlock didn’t know what the mad criminal had in mind.  

He was deep in thought and barely noticed John getting hold of the letter.

‘What’s his game now then?’ he asked. Sherlock wished he knew.

‘I’m not sure. But _our_ game is finding him before he has the time to do whatever he’s planning to do.’

‘Damn it. Why won’t she pick up the phone?’ John was pointing at the screen of his mobile phone angrily. ‘Sherlock, I need to find my wife.’

Sherlock’s own phone beeped at that exact moment; he thought it must be Mycroft and ignored it. Then it beeped again and he had a look. A photo was downloaded automatically. It was a black and white shot of Mary. She had a stern expression on her face but didn’t look particularly scared. A timer popped up, and Sherlock made use of the precious seconds before the picture vanished. He couldn’t take a screenshot as the option was disabled. He committed every detail to memory and showed it to John for one second as the countdown came to zero.

John had paled visibly and he gazed up at Sherlock as if the detective had all the answers that he desperately needed.

‘John, listen to me,’ he said, shaking him by the shoulder gently. ‘She could be a hostage or a former associate. We don’t know which; it’s the first thing we need to find out.’

‘Well, I lost the chance to find out, didn’t I? It was all in the flash drive. It must have been. Whoever she really is, she’s carrying my daughter. So we are going to find her _now_.’

Sherlock nodded.

‘We’re being followed. Either he knows we are here, or he left a copy of the letter at every takeaway in London, but the second option is unlikely. Look around very carefully, John.’ Sherlock’s heart was pounding, adrenaline rushing through his body as he observed his surroundings and pointed at a narrow alley nearby. ‘Do you know where exactly she is supposed to be staying? Have you got her friend’s number?’

‘No. She’s not been very forthcoming lately.’

‘That photo was taken at some high-security facility,’ Sherlock started saying, but then John’s phone beeped.

 ‘It’s a message. A message from her, oh God.’ He read it aloud.

_Not a hostage. He’s looking for me so I left town. I know his ways so he won’t find me. Don’t let him get to you. Can’t pick up the phone. Play the game._

‘ _Play the game_ is our code phrase. We are supposed to use it to prove it’s really us texting the other. She’s ok then, thank God.’ John sighed as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. 

‘ _I know his ways_ means that she was an associate of Moriarty,’ Sherlock whispered. ‘You said she was shaken up when she heard the news of his return. They probably have a past. She could have been part of his network.’

‘Whatever she did, it’s okay. I’ve made my peace with the fact that she’s got a past, Sherlock. I still have to keep her —them— safe. So let’s find that archenemy of yours.’

John’s hand grazed against his for a second intentionally. The touch was reassuring and slightly unnerving. It meant so many things. First and foremost, it meant that John wouldn’t act like nothing had happened between them the night before. Sherlock had no time to analyze this revelation now and he hated that. He wanted a week, a month, a year to find out how John worked his magic on him.

They continued their progress around London and its underworld, and found some more leads pointing to Old Jack’s connection with Moriarty. Sherlock thought they were on the right track to locate the man and interrogate him but their search came to an abrupt stop when they found the poor wretch’s body hanging upside down inside an abandoned underground tunnel. There was another letter tangled in his long disheveled hair. Its message was much shorter.

_It’s better to start from scratch. Recycling is not my thing._

‘He’s not interested in the members of his old syndicate,’ Sherlock said. ‘He’s building a new one.’

‘Just to prove he can,’ John finished his thought.

Sherlock let his brother know about the corpse and the fact that they could be being monitored by Moriarty. The safe house was probably not safe at all so they might as well try and find a new place. By the end of the day, they had visited the morgue to know the results of the autopsy —nothing unusual there, death by strangulation— but they had found no more letters.

 _You are going back to Baker St_ , Mycroft’s message said.Sherlock smiled. He liked that. All his laboratory equipment and anything that could aid in the investigation was there. It was home, especially if John came back with him. The surveillance team would still be stationed outside, trying to look inconspicuous; they were meant to protect John and Sherlock as per Mycroft’s request. They both went to the safe house to collect Sherlock’s things and the documents they needed and took a taxi to 221B.  

‘I’m beaten,’ John said, sitting on his chair. Mrs. Hudson had been happy to see them and had cooked them some light dinner, then ranted about Moriarty’s comeback for a while and left them to their own devices.

Sherlock gazed at John from the kitchen for some time. The situation was far from perfect; they were probably in mortal peril —again— and yet the sight of his friend sitting on the red chair eased his mind. As much as he had loved the puzzle-solving, the constant thrill and the risks involved, he just loved John Watson more, he decided. He was afraid to lose whatever it was that he’d glimpsed the previous night as they finally laid hands on each other. One wrong move, one _word_ , one damn gunshot and it would all disappear. He grabbed a cracker from an open packet, suddenly hungry. He’d broken his vow —in part, at least. He had meant well when he had tried to protect John and Mary’s happiness; except no happiness ensued. Married life didn’t suit John and Sherlock wanted to snatch him out of Mary’s grasp.

‘You’re sulking,’ John said, breaking the long silence.

‘I have a lot to think about.’

John glanced at the fireplace nervously, then at the floor. He scratched the back of his head and frowned a little, the way he used to do when he had made up his mind about something.

‘Come here. Sit with me,’ John asked him, and Sherlock walked back into the living-room and sat on the edge of his black chair, forefingers joined before his mouth. Sherlock waited for him to speak.

‘I’m not a good man. I’m not the best person you’ve met. Hang on,’ John lifted a hand as Sherlock made an attempt to protest and correct that statement. ‘I’m certainly not a good husband. I don’t even know if I’ll make a decent father. But I am the best _me_ when I’m with you. And this is the only place I feel completely happy and safe. It all must mean something. This is _home_.’

‘ _You_ are home,’ Sherlock said before he could stop himself. ‘Anywhere has the potential to become home if you’re there. I’m asking too much when I tell you to stay with me, to stay where I can see you and keep you safe. Yet I have to ask.’

‘I was this close to changing my mind before the wedding, Sherlock,’ John retorted, gesturing with two fingers. ‘One word and I’d have broken it off. God, how was I supposed to _know_? You were playing the best friend role pretty smoothly.’

‘You chose not to see it. I was guilty of the same crime myself.’

‘That day during the dancing lesson, you dipped me and it all happened in my head. You were so close.’ John let out a nervous laugh. ‘During the stag do too. You were so damn close.’

‘You had made your choice.’ Sherlock’s heart was beating fast again. He remembered the feeling. They could have had it all then.

‘I’ve only made one right decision in years. It was to move in with you.’

Sherlock frowned, surprised and oddly delighted.

‘I’m going to kiss you, John Watson. I don’t care if all hell breaks loose.’ He leaned forward to fill the gap between them, held on to the arms of John’s chair and did as he’d promised.   

John’s lips were moist and welcoming. His arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist as Sherlock straddled him so that he was sitting on John’s lap. They were being reckless. Sherlock knew that. The situation was critical and his old self would have been unable to stop thinking about Moriarty’s comeback. Two days ago he really wouldn’t have. But he literally _had_ John in his arms now and he wouldn’t give in to fear. He had to seize the moment and let John know he loved him. He had to feed his starved body after so many years of neglect.    

‘Not very decorous, this. But quite comfortable,’ Sherlock whispered, eliciting a chuckle.

‘Being here in the flat and on our furniture is a big improvement.’ John kissed the alabaster neck, and Sherlock closed his eyes to enjoy the tickling sensation.

‘The flat…’ Sherlock muttered suddenly, glancing around them. A few scattered pieces he hadn’t paid enough attention to fell into place. Something _had_ happened in the flat during his absence.

‘What’s wrong?’ John sighed, probably realizing that Sherlock’s body had gone rigid and tense.

Sherlock got on his feet quickly and walked to the fireplace, then to the main door. A misplaced speckle of dust there, a tiny portion of mud near the carpet, a painting tilted slightly to the right. They had been careful but not _too_ careful. It didn’t take him too long to find the two minute cameras. John stood up and had a look at them.

‘This could be Mycroft,’ he frowned.

‘I’ll find out in a second,’ Sherlock said. He texted his brother, who seemed genuinely surprised as he replied. No one had gone inside 221B to bug it.

It had to be Moriarty, then. He was about to voice that thought when their door slammed open and Mary walked in. She was wearing casual clothes, not the black ones she’d been in when she shot Sherlock. She was carrying a big red handbag and what looked like a tablet in her hands. The team stationed outside must have let her go in at the sight of her belly.

‘You really thought I’d left town. It suited your purpose, so why think otherwise?’ she said, standing in the middle of the room and looking at them in turns.

John was speechless, so it was Sherlock who answered.

‘You could be running from Moriarty for all we know. You have a past that —remember this— we have tried not to find out anything about.’

‘I have a message for you.’ She touched the screen of the tablet.

As soon as the video started playing, Sherlock knew that they had been right in their assumption that Mary had worked for the criminal. And he looked very much alive.

_Hello, darling. My network is very much alive and kicking again. I’m a bad, bad boy and I’m going to make lots of trouble. Just so that you know, Sherlock, it was me who gave Mrs. Watson the order not to kill you. She would have gladly done so, as she knew she’d lose John Watson to you if she didn’t._

Jim Moriarty’s voice and manner hadn’t changed a bit. He was the biggest drama queen on the planet —arguably a bigger one than Sherlock. The recorded video went on.

 _Here’s the thing. You did escape death on that rooftop; I am willing to admit you are smart. We could do great things together._ He flashed a bright smile at the camera. _Including those things which you are currently doing with your dear John Watson_ _—_ _he certainly isn’t worth it. And if you come and join me I will be generous and spare his life. He can continue playing house with Mary as long as he wants. Come with me and do not say a word to that annoying brother of yours. Take your time and think about it. I’ll be waiting._ He dragged the last word on and on and gave it a sing-song quality.

Sherlock had paid attention. He was sure he could find out the location where the video had been recorded. But then, that was exactly what Moriarty wanted, for Sherlock to go meet him. He couldn’t do it immediately as it would be impossible to surprise him at all. It couldn’t be that simple. There would be an unexpected twist. Thoughts were racing through his mind while John was still blinking in disbelief.

‘Playing house,’ John muttered, staring at his wife.

‘You don’t seem to enjoy it too much but who knows, a baby could be fun,’ she smiled in a lovely way but her eyes were hard.

‘Sherlock, don’t even think of going,’ John said, avoiding his wife’s stare.

Sherlock had taken the tablet from Mary’s hands in one quick move but the video was gone. Fortunately, he always carried a small recorder in his pocket and had turned it on as the video started. He had the audio to go on at least, and he should be able to remember the rest.

‘I should leave before those guys who were supposed to be protecting you wake up. I knocked them down.’

‘Where is he?’

‘You don’t need me to tell you. Do think about it, Sherlock. Get your hands off my husband and we’ll all be on the winning side.’

‘Why are you doing this? Why are you working for him again?’ John asked, much more calmly. Sherlock could clearly see that whatever affection his friend retained for Mary was fading away. She was sure to grasp that as well.

‘One _never_ stops working for him,’ she replied, then turned around and walked towards the door.

Then John asked a question which Sherlock had already answered in his mind.

‘Were you one of the snipers at the pool?’

That was when Mary had first seen John Watson. Coincidences didn’t exist. They hadn’t crossed paths by chance. She’d picked him out, and the only question remaining was whether she had ever really loved the man. Sherlock thought so. Not that it mattered now.

She left the flat without looking back or answering John’s question. Sherlock went out to check on the unconscious men. They were on the main aisle of the building, sprawled on the floor but still breathing. Another man in black clothes was slapping them on the face. He’d missed Mary somehow.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked Sherlock.

‘Yes, we are fine. Do not inform my brother. I will do it myself.’

‘We need to follow our orders; someone has breached security. Go back inside, sir.’ He got on his feet and left the building, police radio in hand.

‘You are not going,’ were John’s words as he stepped back into the living-room.

‘Not now. I’d be a fool to run to him in the middle of the night. It _is_ a trap.’

‘She’s doing this. I can’t believe she is really doing this,’ John sank in his chair again. ‘Sherlock, did we just let her go away?’

‘Of course we did. She has leverage.’

‘I’m trying not to jump to conclusions. But she got close to me after being about to kill me. What if those were _his_ orders?’

Sherlock was occupied with transferring the recording to his computer in order to send a clean version to Mycroft. He looked up and shook his head slowly.

‘She does love you.’

John fell silent. Sherlock could feel him going miles away even though he was still sitting nearby. It struck Sherlock as funny how it had always been him who had done that in the past; he would concentrate on whatever puzzle he was working on and ignore John and everyone else, literally taking no notice of his surroundings. Unconsciously, John had become a little like him over the years. Sherlock would respect his silence now.

Even though he had found and disconnected the cameras, video had probably been fed to Moriarty’s people; now the villain had proof of the existence of a more intimate relationship between John and him, and the thought appalled Sherlock. Information was power. Images were power. Exactly how Moriarty planned to use them, he had no idea. Mary would see them, if she hadn’t already. _Get your hands off my husband_. She knew.

Sherlock spent the rest of the evening texting with Mycroft and Lestrade. He wasn’t going to meet Moriarty on his own. This case was too personal, his position too precarious. One false step and John would be in danger again. He’d truly learned his lesson and this time they would all work as a team. After all, Mycroft had brought him back and he owed his older brother one.

It was almost two in the morning when Sherlock began to feel drowsy and decided to go to bed. To his surprise, John was still sitting in the same position, eyes closed but not asleep. Sherlock felt a sudden burst of affection for the man. It had been hard to get used to those, but they occurred too often now. He grabbed a blanket that lay folded on the sofa and threw it over John’s knees so that he wouldn’t be cold if he decided to stay there all night. John barely twitched in response.

Sherlock checked his room for more bugs but found none. He took off his clothes and nestled in his bed beneath a pile of covers. It was warm enough but he felt cold; he wished John would snuggle against him again. He tried to put his mind to rest, to forget about Moriarty and Mary and all that was rotten in the world and think of John instead.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to post the whole thing in one go but it's taking so long that I need to split it up. It's gonna be a two-chapter thing probably. Please don't kill me just yet.


End file.
